


Portal to Hell

by corvidae9, knitmeapony



Series: Cross-Country [2]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9, https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitmeapony/pseuds/knitmeapony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean take a case abroad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portal to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This one written by Knitmeapony. Posted jointly for continuity

So far the hunt had been fruitless. 

Sam and Dean were so well practiced at this, covering one room at a time, that they'd swept the first floor in ten minutes and were almost to the end of the second. It was a standard scan -- kids disappearing, odd noises at night, lights flashing, voices in empty rooms -- and they both figured it was somewhat less than supernatural. They hadn't found anything telling, no homeless or runaways living in the basement, no sign at all of the kids, and they were both getting frustrated. The house might be haunted, might even be dangerous, but it sure wasn't giving up its secrets.

Dean carefully pushed the last door open and jerked back as there was the sound of a thump and rattle. "... shit," he opined, quietly, and Sam slid to the other side of the door, tilting his head and gesturing. They were well-practiced, and with a nod, they stormed the room.

Nothing. Just a dusty old bit of furniture in the corner and a ray of sunlight cracking through the boarded-up window, glinting on the wardrobe's handles.

Dean lifted an eyebrow and nodded towards the wardrobe, and Sam nodded again and mouthed a word. _Spirit?_

Dean's expression was all snark. _Obviously._

Sam rolled his eyes. "We should open it, at least."

"... fine. You open it." Dean waved Sam over with the shotgun. "I'll cover you."

"Why do you always get to cover me?"

"I don't!"

"You do! I'm always the one opening the wardrobes. Going in to see if someone's alive."

"Shut up and open the damn thing, Sam."

"Fine." Sam gave him a dirty, irritated, you'll-pay-for-this-later look and stormed over to the heavy doors, taking a breath before throwing them open.

Fur coats.

Sam prodded them with a finger. Fur coats. Just rows of fur coats, old and moth-eaten to say the least.

Dean stepped up next to him and made a face. "This place smells like... old."

Sam gave him a look and reached in to shove at the coats. "There's something back there." He squinted and pushed them apart as a gust of wind brought white flakes through the gap, showering their shoulders. They froze. "... ash?"

Dean tilted his head to examine his shirt. "... snow."

They stared at each other, and then as one their head moved to peer between the coats at the winter scene inside the wardrobe, lamppost gamely flickering away in the half-light.

Sam stepped back. 

Dean slammed the doors.

"... does that seem right to you?"

Sam simply pulled the salt out of his pocket.

Dean's lighter clicked loud in the quiet.


End file.
